


a dream called Santa Fe

by the_crocodile_writes



Category: Newsies! The Musical/Newsies! The 1992 movie, Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure, Tangled (2010), Tangled: The Series (Cartoon)
Genre: Cassandra and Varian are SIBLINGS, F/M, Flynn Rider is Jack Kelly bc of course he is, I would die for Lance as Crutchie, IT'S A NEWSIES AU Y'ALL, M/M, Mostly based off of the musical but elements of the 1992 movie will be there!!, Spot Conlon: NYC's favorite cryptid, and Flynn Rider's heart grew 3 sizes that day, honestly? the newsies are all 1st or 2nd gen immigrants and i love them, i'll give specific chapter warnings when something is coming up don't worry, maybe i'll give this a sequel, maybe the REAL friends are the newspapers we sold along the way, some period typical prejudice bc people are assholes but nothing too brazy bc i say so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-05-30 12:39:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15096908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_crocodile_writes/pseuds/the_crocodile_writes
Summary: The year is 1899, the place is New York City, and despite having his sights set on Santa Fe, Flynn Rider finds himself in charge of a ragtag group of newsboys on strike. Aided by a reluctant Cassandra and her enthusiastic little brother Varian, Flynn Rider attempts to topple the bourgeois... And maybe fall in love with a certain blonde journalist along the way.recently posted: chapter 3- soakin' every sucker that we canThe sun is up, the headline stinks, and the Stabbington Brothers continue to waste oxygen.





	1. 'til that train makes Santa Fe

**Author's Note:**

> specific content warnings will be posted before each chapter.
> 
> Tangled, Tangled the series/Rapunzel's tangled adventure, and all incarnations of Newsies! belong to Disney, I have 0 ownership or rights but I'm making 0 profit and Disney is losing 0 profit here so let's agree to live and let live here.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flynn and Lance wake up on a roof somewhere in southern Manhattan and have a near death experience before breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: mild ableism, (mostly Lance @ himself,) friends insulting each other, cursing, brief non graphic mentions of death
> 
> This chapter's song is: Santa Fe Prologue, written and produced by Alan Menken for Newsies the broadway musical, which is something I claim 0 ownership of so maybe like,,, Disney don't make me cease and desist? I'm so poor and have no profit here lmao

_they say folks is dyin' to get here, me i'm dyin' to get away_

_to a little town out west that's spankin' new_

_and while i ain't never been there i can see it clear as day_

_if you want, i bet'cha you could see it, too_

* * *

 

 

 

Flynn Rider had never been a heavy sleeper, even before he lived on the rooftop of a semi abandoned building in southern Manhattan. He’d grown up in a single bedroom apartment, sharing the moonlight hours with rattling cough from his mother’s ribcage. There’d been a time where Flynn had thought he couldn’t hate anything more than the sound of that cough. He was wrong, of course. Flynn eventually came to discover that he hated silence more. He would lie awake for hours, staring into the darkness as the silence roared in his ears, threatening to deafen him.

All the same, it had definitely gotten harder to sleep through the night the last 5 years. He usually woke up around 4am, a habit developed due to his father’s extensive former work schedule. This morning had been a rare one, in that Flynn managed to sleep past his usual internal alarm clock. He didn’t stir from his fitful sleep until nearly 6am, when he was awakened by the dull clang of wood against iron.

“Ow.” A muffled voice traveled through the damp New York morning.

“Hey, where ya goin’?” Flynn groaned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes to stare at his friend Lance. “The morning bell ain’t rung yet, go back to sleep.” He flopped back over onto his sack of lentils, closing his eyes.

“I wanna beat the other fellas to the street,” Lance said, ignoring Flynn’s wishes to go back to bed. “I don’t want anyone should see… I uh, I ain’t been walking so good.” Lance finished the last button of his vest and brushed off the worn fabric in an attempt to make himself more presentable. It didn’t work.

“Oi vey, quit griping. You know how many fellas fake a limp for sympathy, right? That bum leg of yours is a gold mine,” Flynn sat up and stretched, giving up on the idea of going back to sleep. The humid morning air caused the thin material of his shirt to stick uncomfortably to his skin, and he just knew his hair had frizzed up massively overnight.

“Someone gets the idea I can’t make it on my own, they’ll lock me up in the refuge for good this time,” Lance shoved his newsboy cap onto his head and grabbed his worn wooden cane. “Now be a pal, Flynn, and help me down.” Lance hobbled over to the fire escape, lowering himself to swing his legs over the edge.

“No one’s gonna give no dusty, bum-legged Haitian a second glance, you’re worrying for nothin’,” Flynn huffed in exaggerated annoyance, shoving his cap over his curls. “Hey, slow down, can’t you see there’s fucking dew everywhere?” Flynn called out towards Lance, delivering his warning just a bit too late.

“WOAH!!” Lance’s left hand lost its grip on the fire escape and he nearly tumbled 6 stories through the air onto the streets of New York. He dangled precariously for a moment, his knuckles turning white beneath his dark skin as he clung to the railing with all of his strength.

Flynn sprang to his feet and sprinted over to his friend, grabbing his flailing hand and pulling him back up onto the roof in one fluid motion. The boys fell into a tangled pile of limbs, safely away from the edge.

“You trying to bust your other leg too?!” Flynn wheezed at Lance, trying to keep his voice steady. He didn’t want any trembling to betray how frightened he had been for those 10 seconds.

“Uh _, nooo_ , I wanna go down,” Lance grumbled, straightening his cap. Flynn shoved him over.

“You’ll be down soon enough,” Flynn pushed himself up and walked to the edge of the roof. “Take a _moment,_ ” Flynn pleaded. “Drink in my penthouse, high above the stinkin’ streets of New York.” The sun was growing closer to the horizon, the gray haze of the city seemed to take on an unearthly glow from the indirect light source.

“Disgusting,” Flynn muttered.

“You’re crazy,” Lance rolled his eyes, still sitting down where Flynn had shoved him.

“Oh, what? Because I happen to enjoy a breath of fresh air? Because I like seeing the sky? And the stars?” Flynn cried indignantly.

“I’ll make you see stars,” Lance waved his crutch in Flynn’s general direction, in an attempt to intimidate him.

Flynn raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. He turned back to his brooding, training his glare onto the pedestrians below. These streets had sucked the life out of his father. Years of backbreaking jobs and getting consistently screwed over by factory owners really took its toll on him, though he’d always tried his damnedest not to let on. But then, Flynn’s mother had died. Looking back, his dad had died that day too. He started underperforming at work, he couldn’t carry on at his previous pace when his body was wracked by grief. Flynn’s mouth flattened into a thin, bitter line as he recalled the day his father had been let go from the slaughterhouse. Flynn went to work hawkin’ papers the very next day, and not three weeks later he found himself burying another parent.

“New York City,” he sighed, “ _Center of the universe._ Yeah, who’s gonna break the news to poor Copernicus that the center of the universe is basically just a giant armpit?” Flynn looked over at his pal with a wry smile.

Lance laughed, slightly unsure. “Haha, yeah, you make absolutely no sense right now, pal. Don’t be stupid, everyone wants to come here. It’s New York!”

“Sure, New York’s fine for those who got a big, strong door to lock it out,” Flynn threw his arms up in the air, gesturing wildly. He grabbed his shirt off of the makeshift clothesline they had fashioned, figuring he may as well get dressed with all possibility of returning to sleep out the window.

“Let me tell you, man, there’s a whole other way of life out there.” Flynn sighed, shrugging his shirt on over the tank top he slept in. “You can keep your small life in a big city. Me? Give me a big life in a small town. Do you know they went and made a whole city out of clay?”

Lance couldn’t help smiling at the evident awe in his friend’s voice. The younger boy moved closer, drawn in by Flynn’s words.

“And that’s not all, Lance, there’s actual trees and crap out there. Imagine Central Park, but everywhere,” Flynn continued excitedly, “Santa Fe! Can’t you just picture it? Close your eyes, Lance!”

“What for?”

“For picturin’ it better, now just shut up and do it,” Flynn admonished, enthusiasm undiminished. Lance sighed, but he did as Flynn wanted

“Now come with me, on a journey of the mind if you will, to a little town out west called Santa Fe. The minute that you get there, folks walk right up and say, ‘ _Welcome home, son, welcome home to Santa Fe.’_ You spend your time doing honest work and being paid fairly for it. Splitting rails, planting crops! Imagine having your own land, full of your own food, Lance!” Flynn’s voice carried through the damp morning air, as clear as a bell. Lance was sure that even the pigeons roosting nearby were starting to dream about Santa Fe. Flynn was still chattering excitedly.

“And on Sundays you just get to lie around all day, tellin tales around the fire with all your buddies,” Flynn sighed in contentment.

“Since when do you care about getting Sundays off?” Lance joked, knocking Flynn with his shoulder.

“Hey now, do I seem the type to reject a day off because of religious differences?” Flynn nudged Lance back gently, careful not to knock his friend off balance. “You could come with me, you know, when I got enough money for a train ticket. I can see you living sweet in Santa Fe.”

“What, you got folks there I don’t know about?” Lance asked, surprised that these plans were more concrete than the escapist musings of a tired boy.

“Ain’t got no folks, nowhere,” Flynn scoffed, “You?”

“Well, I don’t need folks,” Lance said dismissively, adjusting his stiff leg, “but I got friends.” Flynn turned and met Lance’s gaze, his hazel eyes crinkled by his warm grin.

“So come with me then! No one cares about no bum leg in Santa Fe, youse just hop a palomino, ride around in style!” Flynn said, hopping into a feigned gallop as he went to grab his vest. Lance laughed loudly, throwing his head back.

“Oh yeah, feature me ridin’ in style,” he shook his head dismissively, dark eyes twinkling in amusement at Flynn’s antics. “You know I don’t trust horses, not after that one time with that police horse.” Flynn, now fully dressed with his vest over his shirt, black on blue, didn’t miss a beat.

“Hey, I bet a few months of clean air and you could toss that crutch for good! We’ll build up those twig arms of yours working the land, chasing the sun. By the time Santa Fe is done with you, I bet we could swim the whole of the Rio Grande, just for fun!” Flynn cried out, joining Lance back at the edge of the roof. He propped his arms up on the ledge and gazed over the horizon. Lance didn’t doubt for a moment that Flynn could see all the way to Santa Fe.

It occurred to Lance how genuine Flynn seemed in this moment, guard down, dreaming out loud. Loud enough for all Manhattan to hear, certainly. He was so earnest, Lance could almost see this life Flynn was dreaming up for them. Lance stared down at his hands, suddenly overwhelmed with trying to hold back tears that had sprung up out of nowhere. He could see himself running for miles into the Santa Fe sunset, unimpeded by his crutch. Finally, a burden to no one. Finally free.

Lance looked up from his hands to see Flynn looking at him in concern.

“Hey, don’t you know that we’re a family?” Flynn grabbed Lance’s shoulder, turning the shorter boy to look at him. “Would I let you down? Huh? No way! You know me, Lance. Just hold on, kid, I’ll get us there. Just hold on for Santa Fe,” Flynn took his cap off, lightly smacking Lance in the center of his chest with it to punctuate his words. Lance smiled, burying his friend’s words deep in his heart. Family, he liked that. He liked that a lot.

The relative quiet of the neighborhood was punctured by the ringing of the morning bell.

Flynn groaned, shoving his cap back onto his head.

“Well, time for dreamin’s done, ain’t it? Let’s get a move on and go see if we can find those helpless children we call our coworkers. Newspapers don’t sell themselves, after all,” Flynn made his way over to the fire escape, preparing to help Lance down.

Lance shifted his weight onto his good leg and followed Flynn.

“And thank God for that. Still, ain’t it a fine life? Carrying the banner and all?” Lance asked.

Flynn paused for a moment, considering.

“Yeah, I ‘spose it is. Beats washin’ dishes, anways.”

 

 

* * *

 

_close your eyes, come with me, where it's clean and green and pretty_

_and they went and made a city outta clay_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this?? please feel free to kudos or comment, they all mean a lot to me and can fuel my happiness for DAYS.
> 
> I hope you're ready to meet my horrible messy sons whom I adore next chapter!! and someone else ;)
> 
> @ Disney hey... ily,, don't sue... we both know i'm not making money off this...


	2. carryin' the banner man to man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The newsies politely eat terrible donuts and Flynn Rider meets a girl with a smart mouth and emerald eyes. Across town, a storm brews.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Lance gets affectionately called Crutchie, I remind everyone the newsies are poor
> 
> This chapter's song and title come from "Carrying the banner" written and produced by Alan Menken for Newsies the Broadway musical and I have 0 rights for anything.
> 
> All rights for Tangled, Tangled the series, Newsies, etc belong to Disney, but we all know they make a LOT more money than I do and I receive $0.00 exactly for doing this. so maybe don't sue?? it'd waste everyone's time i'm so poor

_it’s a crooked game we’re playing, one we’ll never lose_

_long as suckers don’t mind paying, just to get bad news_

* * *

 

 

The Manhattan newsies who lived at the newsboy lodging house had a long-standing tradition of going to St. Patrick’s Basilica for a charitable breakfast. The nuns couldn’t provide anything other than coffee (either burnt or curdled, depending on the season) and donuts that were more than likely made out of cement, but Flynn found it hard to complain. It was a free source of food, after all, one less meal for the newsies to worry about. For this reason, even the boys who had families would usually join their friends for breakfast at the Basilica. Though half the newsies had some sort of family and the other half had somehow lost theirs, they were all united in poverty. During rough times, these mold sprinkled donuts could be the only meal some of them got.

“Hey Flynn, whaddaya think the headline is gonna be today?”

Shaken from his thoughts, Flynn looked over his tin cup of bitter coffee at Gunther, a German boy who kept his pin-straight blonde hair cropped short beneath his newsboy cap.

“I don’t much care what it is, if I hate the headline I’ll just make up a new one.” Flynn shrugged, downing the rest of his coffee. As he walked, he shoved his cup into the canvas bag that was slung around his shoulder for carrying newspapers. “I’ll say anything I have to, Flynn Rider doesn’t eat papes.”

“I do not care of the headline, I have hope there will be a big and nice picture!” Pete chattered excitedly through a mouthful of donut. It amazed Flynn how quickly the Dutch boy had picked up English, considering how he’d only been in the country a year.

“Of course, ya only care about the picture, Pete,” scoffed a beanpole of a boy named Aaron Brewster. “You can’t read.” This got a laugh from some of the other boys, and irritated Flynn.

“Oi, Bruiser, you can’t exactly read either,” Flynn reminded him, using the nickname he knew the boy hated. To any outsider, it sounded like the nickname had been earned through winning fist fights and turf wars. However, Flynn and the Manhattan newsies knew the truth, that Aaron Brewster had earned himself the name “Bruiser” the day he had accidentally catapulted himself over a stack of newspapers while trying to do a rapid-fire series of hand springs. His slender frame had gotten a fair bit of distance and he ended up crashing into his best friend Vladimir and leaving him with bruised ribs for nearly a month. Thus, “Brewster” became “Bruiser.”

The group laughed again, this time at Bruiser, and louder. Bruiser flushed red, mumbling something under his breath that sounded like _‘I can read_ some,’ and shoved the rest of his donut in his mouth.

“Thank you,” Pete said quietly, placing his hand on Flynn’s forearm with a grateful smile.

Flynn met his gaze and smiled back before punching him in the shoulder.

“Shut up,” he breezed, ruffling the younger boy’s hair before dropping his pace so he could fall in line with Lance at the back of the group.

They walked in silence for a bit, watching the group of boys in front of them goof off.

“They’re really killing us with this trolley strike though,” Lance hummed, brow tense as he concentrated on avoiding the odd obstacle in his path. “Three weeks of the same headline? Not even my regulars will buy a pape from me.”

“C’mon, it’s a Saturday,” Flynn waved his hands around in an attempt to dissipate Lance’s concerns, “they always manage to give us better headlines for the weekend.”

“I hope you’re right, it’s getting bad out there,” Lance grinned ruefully, “and papers are all I’ve got.”

“Strongbow, I’ve never been more insulted,” Flynn gasped, removing his hat to smack Lance’s shoulder. “You’ve got _me!_ You think I’d let ya starve?”

Lance stuck his crutch out, causing Flynn to stumble over it. “Maybe I don’t like depending on you for everything, huh? I’m no dead weight!” Lance’s challenge was playful on the surface, but Flynn could tell his friend’s words had truth to him.

“Hey now, dead weight? Perish the thought! A family looks out for each other, and that’s what we are. God, Crutchie, we’ve been over this.” Flynn rolled his eyes, but clapped a hand on Lance’s shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

“Guess I’m stuck with all youse bums,” Lance grumbled, rolling his eyes in an attempt to hide his grin.

“Guess you are-“ Flynn started to say, but was cut off by a loud exclamation from one of the boys in front of them.

“Well hello, hello, _hello_ , beautiful!” crooned Romeo, a young boy of Italian descent who was more often than not referred to by his nickname ‘Big Nose’ for what Flynn felt were fairly obvious reasons. Big Nose was addressing a young, well-dressed couple headed in the opposite direction of _The World_ , which was the newsies destination. The boy in the pair was thoroughly uninteresting to Flynn, and he wasn’t spared a second glance.

Flynn’s attention focused solely on the young woman, who was very obviously uninterested in Big Nose’s advances. Her disinterest was conveyed very clearly, though not unkindly, on her face. Oh, and her face… Flynn had barely taken note of her purple ensemble, which was clearly expensive, and her long golden hair that hung in a thick braid over her shoulder before he was completely drawn in by her large green eyes. Really, her eyes were an impossibly vivid green, Flynn had never seen anything like them. Before he knew what he was doing, Flynn was brushing past Lance without a word. He wove himself through the crowd of newsies, which had grown ever larger as they’d gotten closer to _The World,_ and wound up shoulder to shoulder with Romeo, directly in front of… her.

“Step aside, Romeo, nothing more concerns you here,” Flynn said with a roguish grin, playfully shoving aside the younger boy. “Mornin’ miss, may I interest you in the latest news?” Now that Flynn had gotten closer he could see she was very close to him in age, and had freckles all over her face, concentrated more over her slightly upturned nose. Her lips were the color of the pink roses his father used to bring home for his mother on special occasions. They were probably even the same shape as the petals when they weren’t stretched into a frown, which they currently were.

“The paper isn’t out yet,” she said flatly, and looked to her companion, who Flynn had honestly forgotten about, signaling she was ready to resume their stroll. Flynn stepped smoothly to the side, easily placing himself in their path before they could make any ground.

“Oh, but I would be delighted to deliver it to you personally,” Flynn said, stepping closer to the blonde woman. Her male companion rolled his eyes and opened up his mouth, probably to tell Flynn to buzz off, but he was interrupted.

“I’ve got a headline for you,” she began, and Flynn felt his heartbeat step up the pace as her subtle smile lit up her emerald eyes from within. “ _Cheeky Boy Gets Nothing for His Troubles.”_

This quip elicited a howl of laughter from Big Nose, who had apparently stayed to watch their entire interaction.

“Back to the bench, slugger! You struck out!” he crowed, shoving Flynn aside to clear the couple’s path. This action earned him a kind smile from the golden-haired beauty, and Romeo gave a shy boyish grin in return.

“I’m crushed!” Flynn cried, dramatically, allowing himself to be moved aside by the smaller boy. He straightened his cap and sighed as he fell back into pace with the group. Flynn hadn’t really expected anything to come of that interaction, but he couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed. Not only was this girl beautiful, she’d had zero hesitation putting Flynn in his place. In Flynn’s mind that had just made her infinitely more attractive. Still, based on the way she was dressed, and the clothes of her companion, she was probably leagues above him in social status.

Flynn Rider was no fool, he knew he’d never have a future with a girl like that. That didn’t mean he couldn’t turn back for one last look, though. He glanced over his shoulder, twisting his body ever so slightly, hoping she hadn’t turned the corner and disappeared from view.

To Flynn’s surprise, and delight, not only was the girl still in view, but she had turned to look back at him. Their eyes met across the length of the block, and without thinking Flynn gave her a wink. She flushed pink and hurriedly turned back around, grabbing the arm of the boy she was with and rushing off. Flynn quietly watched her disappear from view, until he was brought back to earth by someone clearing their throat.

He looked over and saw Lance grinning stupidly wide, widely enough to split his face in two.

“Hey Flynn,” the shorter boy said, wiggling his eyebrows up and down, “Who’s your friend?”

“Shuddup, Crutchie,” Flynn sighed, grabbing his friend by the elbow and pulling him down the street. “A girl like her with a guy like me? Never gonna happen, so what’s the use of dreamin’?”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right. Plus, I doubt she’d wanna come to Santa Fe with us,” Lance pointed out, smiling when he saw how the mention of Santa Fe cheered up Flynn.

“Good point, pal,” Flynn said quietly, as they caught up to their group. Santa Fe wasn’t a dream, Santa Fe was a plan. Santa Fe was tangible. A future with that girl, or any girl like that, was nothing more than a fool’s dream. But if he just saved a little more, if he took up a side job, it was within the realm of possibility for Flynn and Lance to reach Santa Fe.

No, Santa Fe was not just a dream. For Flynn’s sake, it couldn’t be.

 

~*~

 

Frederic Pulitzer had a problem. The quarter had just ended, and his newspaper _, The World_ , had not made a profit. Frederic was beginning to worry. Circulation had been down for the two quarters before last, but he’d still managed to squeeze a profit out of the newspaper. But last quarter the numbers had taken a dramatic dip for the worse and Frederic felt his stomach falling with his profits. There had to be something he wasn’t seeing here, some hidden factor that was leading to his downfall.

The middle-aged man sighed, leaning back in his luxe office chair. He could feel a tension headache beginning behind his eyes. Something dramatic had to be done, and soon. Frederic could not have another quarter end like this.

The door to his office opened, and his secretary Hannah poked her head in.

“Is this a good time, Mr. Pulitzer?” she inquired, noting his obviously tense body language.

“Yes, Hannah, forgive me. I was just going over last quarter’s numbers,” Frederic waved her in, managing a smile. He was fond of his secretary. Despite being just a few years older than his daughter, Hannah was very efficient at managing his day-to-day dealings, looking at the world through a lens of practicality. She often had unique insight on situations that neither Frederic or his board members had, thanks to her blue-collar upbringing having been rather different from theirs.

“I just wanted to go over your appointments for the day,” Hannah said, sitting down in the chair across from Frederic’s desk. She opened her planner to the bookmarked page and began reading to him, “You have Feldspar coming in at 10am, for your haircut and bi-weekly shave. At 11:30 you have a meeting with one of your distributors, the one from Saporia.”

“A most dreadful borough,” Frederic muttered, “I suppose it can’t be helped though. And when is the board meeting?”

“1pm, not until after lunch,” Hannah reassured her boss.

“Excellent, so I have until 1 o’clock to fix everything that’s wrong with my newspaper,” Frederic said drily, “I could really use an exciting headline today, Hannah. What do we have?”

“Just the trolley strike, again,” Hannah informed him, not bothering to hide how perfectly un-thrilling she found that subject.

“That’s not exciting?” Frederic sat up in his chair, “It’s epic! It’s a battle of wills!”

“It’s boring,” Hannah said, plainly. “People wanna know, _‘Is the trolley coming or am I walking?_ ’ No one cares why, especially since the strike’s about to be settled. Governor Quaid just put his support behind the workers.”

Frederic groaned at the mention of the governor, despite sharing his thoughts on this issue.

“That man is a socialist, Hannah. No, worse, he’s a commie,” Frederic rubbed his temples, sighing deeply.

“You’ve really never liked him, have you?” Hannah said, pressing her lips together to hide her amusement, “You ran editorials day after day against him when he was running for governor.”

“How can I hope to influence voters if they’re not reading my opinions?” Frederic snapped at his secretary, who didn’t even flinch at his outburst. She knew he was more prone to moments like these at the ends of quarters.

“Big photos attract readers,” Hannah offered.

“Do you know what big photos cost, Hannah? I have the bottom line to think about,” Frederic abruptly stood and walked over to his office window.

He looked down at the square below, watching people mill in and out. Two newsboys stood on the corner. One of them enthusiastically waved around this morning’s edition of _The World_ with his right hand, as his partner leaned on a crutch, struggling slightly to fetch a newspaper from his bag for a customer. The newspaper was procured and traded for a nickel. The newsboy grinned brightly at his customer, shoving the nickel into his pocket.

The answer was right before Frederic’s eyes.

He turned around with newfound energy, striding back to his desk.

“I haven’t been thinking this through, Hannah. Sometimes you only need a modest adjustment to fatten the bottom line,” Frederic pulled a few sheets of paper from his desk and began to do a few small calculations.

“Have you figured out how we’re going to sell more newspapers?” Hannah asked, raising an eyebrow at this rapid change of mood.

“ _We_ don’t sell newspapers _, newsies_ sell newspapers,” Frederic looked up, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes, “Right now, we charge the newsies 50 cents for a hundred newspapers. But if we raise their price to 60 cents per hundred, each newsie would have to sell ten more papers than they usually do just to earn the same amount as always! This is genius!”

“But it’s going to be awfully rough on those poor children,” Hannah protested, pushing her glasses back up onto the bridge of her nose.

“Nonsense, I’ll be giving them a real-life lesson in economics,” Frederic waved a hand dismissively, “I couldn’t offer them a better education even if they were my own. I was fighting in a war at their age, if I could survive that, they’ll have no trouble surviving this,” Frederic finished writing and leaned back in his chair, pleased with his decision.

Hannah looked as if she was about to protest, but ultimately elected to hold her tongue.

“It’s settled. Hannah, please send this telegram to the circulation gate,” Frederic said, sliding a piece of paper across the desk to her.

“The price for the newsies goes up in the morning.”

 

* * *

 

_just give me half a cup, something to wake me up,_

_i gotta find an angle_

_it’s getting bad out there, papers is all I got_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all ready to meet my favorite siblings next chapter?? >:)  
> if you're so inclined, please leave a kudos or even a brief comment, they mean more than you know <3  
> As always my tumblr, thecrocodilewrites, is open to messages and asks.
> 
> again @ didney worl, pls don't make me cease and desist I'm not profiting off this. if anything, YOU are because of how many times I've watched newsies on Netflix while writing this


	3. soakin' every sucker that we can

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun is up, the headline stinks, and the Stabbington Brothers continue to waste oxygen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: the Stabbington brothers are ableist and use a slur @ Lance, they also use an anti Semitic slur towards Flynn/Eugene. It happens fairly early on in the chapter and I understand if you need to skip a bit. If you see Anthony the Weasel's name, the interaction is over.
> 
> This chapter's song and title come from "Carrying the banner" written and produced by Alan Menken for Newsies the Broadway musical and I have 0 rights for anything. pls no sue
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to my sister, Aquaquadrant, and GlowAmber, two users unafraid of the TRUTH (Jewish Flynn)

_gotta feelin’ bout the headline, i smells me a headline_

_papes are gonna sell like we was givin’ them away_

* * *

 

**TROLLEY STRIKE ENTERS 3 RD WEEK**

Flynn groaned, letting his head slump forward and rest against the wrought iron bars outside of _The World._ So much for a better headline for Saturday _._

“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” Hook Hand fumed, throwing his cap on the ground in frustration, “I can’t take another day of this shite, neither can my wallet.”

“C’mon, Hook Hand, it’s not that bad. See it like an anniversary,” Lance threw a playful punch at the frustrated boy, “Plus, maybe there’s somethin’ interesting in the social section.

Hook Hand tried to maintain his glower but broke in the face of Lance’s undying optimism.

“Yeah, maybe, Crutchie,” he allowed, leaning over to smack his friend upside the head with his good hand, before grabbing his hat off the ground.

“What’s the forecast?” Hook Hand changed the subject, gesturing toward Lance’s leg, “Gonna rain?

“No rain,” Lance closed his eyes in concentration, shaking his bad leg around a bit, “Partly cloudy, clear by evenin’!” he declared, opening his eyes.

“They oughta bottle this guy!” Gunther laughed, clapping Lance on the shoulder.

“Yeah, and the limp sells 50 papes a week all by itself,” Hook Hand sighed, looking at Lance’s crutch with envy, “It’s way better than my hand, folks don’t see it ‘til they’re up close and then they get all weird, if they even notice it all.” Hook Hand wiggled the remaining fingers on his left hand in exasperation.

“I don’t need the limp to sell papes!” Lanced huffed, “I gots _personality._ You could too, if ya tried, and maybe put down those nasty cigars.”

In response, Hook Hand struck a match to light his cigar. Lance sighed, throwing his arm around Hook Hand’s shoulders.

“It’s easy,” Lance promised, “Just takes a smile that spreads like butta! The kind what turns a lady’s head.” Lance aimed the last part of his sentence at Flynn with a knowing smile, which Flynn pretended not to see.

“Takes an orphan with a stutter,” Hook Hand shrugged Lance’s arm off, not unkindly, his tone light.

“Who’s also blind,” Flynn added.

“And mute,” confirmed Big Nose.

“ _And dead!_ ” finished Stan, a little too gleefully.

“Who is dead?” asked Pete.

At the same time, Lance complained, “Gee, you guys are no fun!”

The conversation fell to pieces after that, Stan trying to explain Pete that no one was actually dead, while various newsies tried to convince Lance that they were, in fact, quite fun. In all the chatter, Flynn almost missed the arrival of two quiet figures. One of them was fairly tall, almost as tall as Flynn was, and the second one barely came to the middle of his taller companion’s torso. They were dressed plainly, but cleanly, and seemed to be well-fed. Stranger yet, the older one was a girl. There weren’t many female newsies in Manhattan. Or anywhere, really. Flynn had heard, though, that Brooklyn’s “girlsies,” as they had been affectionately nicknamed, were growing in number. Probably something to do with the change in leadership a couple years back.

Flynn was about to make his way over to greet the pair and try to find out why someone clearly several steps above the poverty line was showing up to sell newspapers, but he was stalled by a shout.

“Hey step aside! Make way!” barked a deep voice. Oscar and Morris Abington had arrived, though they were never referred to by name. Everyone knew them as the Stabbington Brothers. At 22, they were only a few years older than Flynn, but they were a great deal taller and wider than he was. Dressed smartly in suspenders and fedoras, they weren’t by any means ugly or rough looking, but the Manhattan newsies knew better. These two men were _plenty_ ugly and rough, in ways that were far deeper than physical appearance. The Stabbington brothers had a reputation for being unnecessarily violent cruel that stretched all the way from Manhattan to Queens. Even the Brooklyn newsies gave these two a wide berth. 

“Dear me!” Hook Hand drawled, fanning his hand in front of his face, “What is that unpleasant aroma? I fear the sewers may have backed up during the night!”

“Or could it be-?” Lance paused for dramatic effect, and a handful of newsies joined him in finishing a familiar set-up, “The _Stabbington_ Brothers!”

Morris ignored them as he unlocked the gates, opening the iron bars just wide enough for the newsies to squeeze through. They filed through the slight opening without much difficulty, as over half the boys in the group could qualify as malnourished.

“Hey Oscar, I heard youse and yer brother took money to beat up strikin’ trolley workers,” Bruiser said, the young boy crossing his arms in accusation.

 “So? It’s honest work.” Oscar Stabbington looked down at the boy through an ugly sneer.

Flynn shook his head, sighing inwardly. Why was it always the smallest boys who tried to anger these volatile men? Men who had literally had a nickname with the word “stab” in it, no less. 

“By crackin’ the heads of defenseless workers?” challenged Bruiser’s best friend Vladimir, a stocky boy of Russian descent.

“I take care of the guy who takes care of me,” Oscar growled, moving to close the distance between himself and the young boys, but Hook Hand stepped between them.

“Ain’t yer father one of the workers?” Hook Hand’s jaw jutted out, taunting the man.

“Guess he didn’t take care of me,” Oscar brought his hands up to Hook Hand’s shoulders and gave him a rough shove. Hook Hand nearly toppled backwards into Bruiser and Vladimir but managed to keep his footing.

“Fellas, maybes we should break it up-,” Lance attempted to salvage peace between Oscar and Hook Hand, but Morris Stabbington seized Lance’s forearm.

“What, you want some of this too? Ya lousy _crip_!” Morris jeered. He ripped Lance’s crutch out from underneath him and kicked him over.

With a sharp cry, Lance fell to the ground next to Flynn. Immediately, Flynn surged forward, putting himself between Lance and his aggressor.

“That was _not_ nice, Morris,” Flynn’s voice was low, threatening despite his soft words. The surrounding clamor fell away suddenly, everyone’s focus shifting to the storm brewing in Flynn’s clenched fists.

 “Oh good, the _kike_ has something to say,” Oscar said sarcastically, coming to stand beside his brother after having decided this new situation was much more interesting than Hook Hand.

Flynn closed his eyes for a brief moment, willing himself to not show the Stabbington brothers how much that word bothered him. It’s nothing he hadn’t heard before, after all, and it’s nothing he wouldn’t be hearing again.

“ _Five to one Flynn skunks him_ ,” Attila whispered to Lance as he bent down to help him up.

“I’m choosin’ to ignore that,” Flynn coolly addressed the tall twin gingers in front of him, “Now, one unfortunate day, you might find you got a bum gam of yer own,” Flynn was stalling, waiting for Pete and Attila to finish helping Lance to his feet, “How would you like us pickin’ on you, hm?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Flynn could see Pete and Attila had lifted Lance up and were supporting his weight between them. Now.

“Actually,” Flynn said, as if an idea had just occurred to him, “Maybe we should find out.”

With the element of surprise and his legendary speed on his side, Flynn ripped Lance’s crutch from Morris’s grip and swung. Hard. He connected the wood to Morris’s knees with a satisfyingly solid _thwack_. As Morris went down, clutching at his injury, Flynn brought the crutch forward. With a grunt, he used the crutch as a battering ram against Oscar’s gut. Winded, Oscar doubled over.

“Wait ‘til I get my hands on you,” Oscar wheezed. Flynn almost admired how intimidating the man could still look while gasping for air.

“You gotta catch me first,” Flynn blew a kiss to the felled gingers before darting across the courtyard. He set his sights on safety, an older man with his ginger hair pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. The Stabbington brother’s boss, Anthony Weselin. The brothers were smart enough to not actively attempt to harm the boys in front of their boss. Not without permission, anyway.

With a cheer, the rest of the newsies followed suit. Attila had scooped up Lance in his arms and was carrying him bridal style, which Lance was greatly enjoying if his “whoops” were anything to go by.

They all clumped together by the wagons, breathless, reveling in the small victory Flynn had brought them. Attila brought Lance over to Flynn and set the boy down carefully.

“Think you could carry me around all day like that?” Lance asked, accepting his crutch back from Flynn.

“I thought youse didn’t wanna be dead weight,” Attila mused, smoothing down his plaid shirt.

“That was earlier today, almost 30 minutes ago. I’s a different person now, Attila, I’ve changed!” Lance pleaded, pretending like he was about to jump back into the boy’s arms.

“My parents didn’t leave China so’s I could become your personal legs, Crutchie,” Attila swatted Lance away playfully.

“Yeah, they left China so’s you could stink at sellin’ newspapers,” Flynn teased, landing a punch on Attila’s arm.

“ _No,_ theys left China so’s we could help my uncle run his bakery. Too bad it burned down, though,” Attila chewed on his thumb, reminiscing about all the delicious baked good that had gone down in flames that night. “What a waste,” he sighed.

“Papes for the newsies, line up!” Anthony Weselin shouted at the clump of noisy boys, “Shut yer faces! Ya want these papes or not?! LINE. UP!”

“ _Anthony the Weasel!”_ Flynn sang, stepping up to the makeshift counter, “Ya miss me?”

“No,” the Weasel said flatly, “And the name’s _Weselin,_ ”

“Ack, sorry mister, goyim names are just so hard to pronounce!” Flynn declared, not sorry at all, and placed his coins in Anthony’s outstretched hand.

“What, only 50 papes for the _famous_ Flynn Rider? That’s uncharacteristically unambitious of you,” Anthony the Weasel rolled his eyes and turned to share a smug look with the Stabbington brothers.

“If ya tell your bosses to stop re-running this snoozer of a headline, I’ll consider buying more papes. Far as I’m concerned, this is only good for wrapping fish at the market,” Flynn touched his cap cheerfully and moved down the line to collect his newspapers from the Stabbington brothers, as if they hadn’t just been trying to murder each other with Lance’s crutch 5 minutes ago.

“G’morning Mister Weselin,” Lance said politely, handing over his coins to the lanky older man.

“30 papes for Crutchie,” Anthony the Weasel instructed his lackeys. Lance gave a tight-lipped smile and shuffled down the line to receive his newspapers. Flynn stood by him as he did so, watching the Stabbington Brothers closely. Just because they weren’t likely to physically assault any of them while their boss was present didn’t mean that they wouldn’t try to hurt the boys in other ways. The decidedly less-than-pleasant pair had been known to give the incorrect number of papers to people who stood up to them in the past. To Flynn, that was worse than a black eye or a split lip. At least with a split lip, he could still afford to buy bread.

“What do we haves here? A new kid!” Anthony announced, loudly enough to startle Flynn.

Flynn turned to see the two newcomers he had noticed before standing in front of the Weasel. He had completely forgotten about them in the chaos of the scuffle.

The girl fiddled with her skirt, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden attention of every single newsie being trained on her.

“Hey! I’m new too!” A high-pitched voice protested. A small boy with elfish features and a shock of blue-black hair popped out from behind the girl. To Flynn, he seemed very excited to be there.

“Don’t worry kid, it rubs right off,” Hook Hand said, from experience.

A few of the newsies chuckled, remembering when they’d first started selling papers.

“I’ll take 20 papers, please,” The girl said, gently pushing her small companion back behind her.

“Youse got the cash?” Anthony the Weasel said, skepticism etched in his features.

The girl knit her brows together at this.

“I’ll pay when I sell them,” she said, slowly, as if that were obvious.

“Funny,” Anthony said, stretching out his palm, “Cash up front.”

“But whatever I don’t sell, you buy back, right?” The girl dug into her satchel, pulling out the demanded payment.

“Christ, yer green,” Anthony sighed, “Once ya buy ‘em, they’s yours. If ya don’t sell ‘em, ya eat the losses.”

The girl looked as though she wanted to protest, and honestly, Flynn didn’t blame her. It was a bum deal. But without another word she handed the money over and moved down the line, her small freckled companion following close behind her. Now that Flynn saw them more closely, he figured they were most likely siblings. They both had the same pale complexion and dark hair, and the girl seemed too young to have a kid his age.

The kid turned around abruptly, apparently feeling Flynn’s eyes on him. Not quite sure of how else to react, Flynn offered a small wave. He grinned widely at this, revealing two slight buckteeth, and gave Flynn thumbs up. The action instantly endeared him to Flynn.

“Mornin’ Weasel!” Hook Hand said jovially, stepping up to pay for his papers.

“At least call me Mr. Weasel,” Anthony the Weasel groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Well if I calls ya sweetheart will ya spot me 50 papes?” Hook Hand teased, placing his hands on the table and leaning towards Anthony.

“Drop the cash and move it along,” Anthony glowered at the boy.

“Whatever happened to romance?” Hook Hand huffed, placing his money as far out of Anthony’s reach as possible and moving to collect his papers from the Stabbington Brothers.

Anthony strained, reaching his arm across the table to collect the abandoned coins but a fist was slammed on top of them before he could.

The new girl stood in front of him, firmly blocking the Weasel from his money.

“What the fuck is yer problem?” Anthony barked, clearly startled by this unexpected event. Flynn was startled too, though not as much as Anthony was, given as he wasn’t on the receiving end of this aggression.

“My problem is I didn’t realize you were in the business of cheating kids out of hard earned money,” she barked back, matching Anthony the Weasel’s tone without skipping a beat, “I paid for 20 papers. Your goons only gave me 17. I want what I paid for.”

Quietly, Flynn stepped over to the girl’s brother, who was holding the papers in question.

“Ya mind?” Flynn asked, holding out his hand.

The boy shrugged and handed them over to Flynn, who quickly counted them. 17 papes.

“You sees how nice I was to these new kids?” Anthony the Weasel turned slightly to face the Stabbington Brothers, “and what do I get? Baseless accusations!”

“She’s right, Weasel,” Flynn interrupted. He walked up to the table, presenting the newspapers with a dramatic flourish, “There’s only 17 here, but I’m sure it’s an honest mistake, seein’ as how Oscar can’t count to 20 with his shoes on.”

Anthony the Weasel snatched the papers from Flynn and counted them angrily. He grew even angrier when he saw that there were truly only 17 newspapers in the stack. Begrudgingly, he reached over and grabbed three more papers and handed the full pile back to the new girl.

“You knows what? Give the new kids 50 more papes,” Flynn made a split-second decision, slamming down the coins on the table.

“I don’t want any more papers,” the girl grumbled, shoving her hard-won newspapers into her canvas bag.

Flynn cocked an eyebrow, sizing the girl up. “What kinda newsie don’t want more papes?” he asked, incredulously. “Is you just insecure about your first day sellin’? Don’t worry, these papes ain’t all for you. I’s gonna show you the ropes and we’ll just divvy up the profits. Lance, you don’t mind sellin’ with Hook Hand today do ya?” Before Lance could respond, the girl interrupted.

“I’m no charity case,” she burst out, “I don’t even know you.”

“His name’s _Flynn Rider!”_ Her little brother turned to face her, looking affronted.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” The girl placed a hand on her hips, unimpressed. Her brows, which already had a graceful natural arch to them, arched even further.

“I dunno where you two’s came from but everyone in Manhattan knows the famous Flynn Rider,” Lance scoffed in disbelief. “He escaped jail on the back of Governor Quaid’s carriage! It made all the papes. Selling with Flynn is the chance of a lifetime! You learn from him you learn from the best!”

“If he’s so good, then what does he need with me?” Suddenly, she was standing directly in front of Flynn, placing herself toe to toe with the veteran newsie. With this new vantage point, Flynn could take in her features quite well. Her eyes weren’t gray, as he originally had thought. They were a dark, cool green, and they probably looked a lot brighter when they didn’t have such large undereye bags accentuating them. Her lips were almost red, and Flynn wondered briefly if that was natural or the effect of some sort of rouge. Overall, she looked like the kind of person who was born with the knowledge of how the world would eventually end. Flynn thought she might even be kind of pretty if she wasn’t so goddamn abrasive. He had the feeling that expressing that thought out loud would earn him a deserved kick to the shin.

“’Cuz youse got a little brother, and I don’t,” Flynn rolled his eyes, side stepping her to address her brother, “How old are you, kid?”

“I’m 11,” the boy paused, before adding, “almost.”

“Well if anyone asks, you’re eight. Younger sells more papes,” Flynn said, tapping his index finger to the side of his head.

The boy nodded sagely, and then broke into an excited grin.

“You really wanna sell with us, Flynn?” he asked, hopping from foot to foot.

“For sure I do- uh-… Youse got a name, right?” Flynn asked, bending down to meet the boy’s eye level.

“My name’s Varian, Varian Jacobs. That’s my older sister, Cassandra,” Varian pointed over Flynn’s shoulder, where Cassandra was standing with her arms crossed.

“It’s Cass,” she corrected, “Don’t call me Cassandra.”

“Nice to meet ya, Cassandra, Varian, now here’s the deal,” Flynn straightened back up to his full height, smoothing down his shirt, “My two bits come off the top, we split everything else 70/30, alright?”

“ _50/50!_ You tryin’ to pull a fast one on a little kid?” Varian cocked an eyebrow, perfectly mimicking Flynn’s expression from earlier.

“Flynn, give the kid his money,” Lance whispered, purposefully loud enough for Cassandra and Varian to hear, “He’s adorable and I want him to stay forever.”

Flynn fixed Lance with a flat stare before sighing, slightly.

“60/40, and that is my final offer,” Flynn relented.

Varian looked over at Cass for approval. She shrugged, giving her little brother a slight nod. Cass figured that they’d still make more money this way than they might have originally.

“Deal!” Varian said, excitedly turning back to Flynn.

Flynn grinned and then spat into his palm, holding it out for Varian to shake. Varian copied the older newsie without hesitation, spitting into his hand with evident glee. The boys shook hands and sealed their contract with a distinct squelching noise.

“That’s disgusting,” Cass informed them.

“That’s just business,” Flynn chuckled, wiping his hand off on Varian’s hat.

It was at this moment the circulation bell chose to ring, calling the newsies to action.

“Newsies!” Flynn called, stepping up onto a stack of unsold newspapers, “Hit the streets! The sun is up, the headline stinks, and Varian isn’t getting any younger!”

 

* * *

 

_uptown to grand central station, down to city hall_

_we improves our circulation_

_walking ‘til we fall_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh hey it's Cass and Varian, my wonderful children!! And Oscar and Morris Stabbington, the garbage boys that I hate. Stay tuned for next chapter, where we get to meet a couple of powerful players...
> 
> kudos and comments are all seen and appreciated greatly, as always feel free to reach out to me on my tumblr, thecrocodilewrites! Pls note: Updates will now be coming every other Friday, instead of every Friday. My new classes just started and I was stretching myself pretty thin between that and my two jobs. But I'm not going anywhere and neither are these scrappy children, don't worry.


End file.
